


Breathe Me

by authoressnebula (authoressjean)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dean Winchester is Sam Winchester's Parent, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s02e01 In My Time of Dying, Gen, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Protective Dean Winchester, Season/Series 02, Sick Sam Winchester, early season 2, mentions of John Winchester - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:36:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22901074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/authoressjean/pseuds/authoressnebula
Summary: Dean really doesn't want to do this, but Sam's cough isn't getting better, and so yeah, maybe the kid's been having some nightmares about hospitals, but they don't really have a choice, and it'll be fine. Sure.Reposted from LiveJournal.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Comments: 6
Kudos: 167





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for Shangrilada's prompt on LiveJournal, and posted January 26th, 2012.

_Be my friend_  
_Hold me, wrap me up_  
_Unfold me_  
_I am small_  
_I'm needy_  
_Warm me up_  
_And breathe me_  
_-"Breathe Me" by Sia_

_  
  
“Sir? Are you all right?”  
  
His head throbbed, it was too cold, and his mouth tasted like cotton balls, and someone was asking if he was all right? No, he wasn't all right. He was the farthest from feeling all right as he could get. He'd always wondered why hospitals asked inane questions. Dean said it was because they just wanted to make themselves feel better about-  
  
Dean. Dad. The car. The demon. Dean.  
  
“Sir? How are you feeling?”  
  
Not any better, by a long stretch of the imagination. “My brother,” he said, or tried to, at any rate. He heard a voice that was barely above a croak and not at all his, but when the nurse asked again in a louder pitch, he realized it HAD been him, after all.  
  
“Sir?”  
  
God, could she quit calling him sir? “My brother,” he tried again, this time managing to whisper the words. “Dad-”  
  
“The two men brought in with you are here, though I don't know their details,” the nurse said sympathetically. “Can you open your eyes for me?”  
  
Oh. He'd thought they'd been open. He focused on his eyelids, slowly peeling them open to see the nurse who sounded like she was hovering right above him, and immediately regretted it. Light, way too bright, and he felt colder. His stomach flipped and for half a second he was terrified he was going to throw up. “Head,” he managed to choke out. “Please...”  
  
“We'll fix that,” the nurse said, already moving away. Her movements were too fast, too jerky for him to follow, and he fought to keep his eyes from crossing. The room was starting to spin a little too fast, and the urge to hurl was getting worse. It felt like his head was leaning forward without his permission, dislocated and floating above his head. Maybe it was trying to find Dean.  
  
Dean. Dad. Dean.  
  
“Deannnnnnnnn,” and oh, that was glorious. Whatever she'd pumped into his IV felt good. It was cold but it was good, and he shivered as it loaded chemical goodness into his veins. His head decided to keep on floating and he let it, let it take the big bundle of pain with it. His head could have it.  
  
The nurse was saying something, but it sounded like it was under water, and he didn't really care. She wasn't going to tell him anything. He'd find Dean himself.  
  
As soon as he could find the appropriate body parts to move, and as soon as she left him alone for just one minute._  
  
  
  
Dean really doesn't want to do this. It's honestly the last thing he wants to do on a long list of Never Want to Do This to Sammy. Okay, his dad's last words are last on the list, but that request is an outlier, and he's not considering it. Nope. Doesn't even make the list, it's so out there.  
  
But unfortunately, Sam's cough isn't going away. If anything, it's getting worse. It's not that it's loud. No, loud coughs mean there's air behind it, means he's getting oxygen and Dean's okay with that.  
  
Sam's coughs are getting rough and quiet, weak and tinny. Like he's not pulling in any air because he's fucking not. It sounds like someone's taking a grater to his throat and oh yeah, great image there, Dean-o. About as great as the idea of someone choking Sammy, because that little whistle and gasping that Sam's doing? That's about what it sounds like when Sam gets choked, when any sort of supernatural being decides to pin his brother and shut off his airways. (Or not so supernatural, like the last bar they went to, where Dean walked away with a fractured fist on account of beating the living shit out of the patrons after they held Sam against the wall and choked the shit out of his brother, and if Dean ever thinks about Sam's desperate fight for air, Sam's wide eyes spinning wildly around the bar looking for Dean, it'll be forever too soon.)  
  
Sam's eyes are getting glassy, his fever out of control. He's refusing any sort of drug, though, and while Dean knows why and understands the logic behind it, he really really _really_ needs his brother to breathe. Sam's coughing out and not pulling any other air in, even though his lungs are heaving and goddamn that witch, that bitch that shot an arrow through Sam's leg and chased them through the snowy forests of the Upper Peninsula for two whole days. Dean really wishes he could shoot her again, if just on principle: you don't fuck with Sammy.  
  
The leg's healing just fine, thank god, but it compromised Sam's system, left him weak and vulnerable to the outdoors, and wouldn't you know it, the kid wound up sick. The infection in his lungs wasn't anything to worry about, for awhile. He was coughing up junk and sounded like a bear but it was fine, he was going to be just fine. Dean bitched about Sam's snotty and phlegmy tissues everywhere and Sam made certain to hack up a lung while Dean watched a movie, his favorite movie too, and they were fine.  
  
And then Dean wound up being shaken awake violently one night by Sam, whose face was getting paler by the second and who wasn't breathing. He was pulling in short, gasping breaths, but not enough, and he almost went down beside Dean's bed, if Dean hadn't caught him. It was Sam's eyes, widening with panic, that brought Dean from groggy to awake in point five seconds more than anything, and less than five minutes later the shower was on to full heat, steaming up the bathroom. Dean raced through the kitchenette and made the fastest thing of coffee the world had ever seen, and all but shoved it down Sam's throat. Between the steam and the caffeine, Sam's airways opened, and both brothers managed to breathe.  
  
The next day, Dean had hit the local pharmacy and gotten everything from liquid cough suppressant to an inhaler. Sammy, the little brat, promptly refused them all. “Fine,” Dean had said at the time, glaring at Sam like _that_ would do any good. “But if you get worse, I have full rights to pull out my Big Brother Card, capital letters and all, and you're gonna take something.”  
  
It got worse. Dean pulled out his Big Brother Card. Sam pulled out his Little Brother Puppy Eyes of Doom. Sam's trump beat Dean's hand without any hesitation, and Sam went on hacking and coughing without any medicine.  
  
The worst part is, Dean knows why. He knows exactly why Sam isn't going to take anything, but that doesn't make it any better. Dean didn't enjoy his experience at the hospital, either. He'd almost died, and then Dad-  
  
The hospital had sucked, okay? No one had enjoyed their stay at the Hospital California, all right? (The Eagles had it wrong, hotels have never been a problem in Dean's life. Hospitals, on the other hand, are the things you enter and never leave again.) Dean still can't bear walking into a hospital without a shudder.  
  
Sam's having nightmares about them. He'd had one that morning, actually, and wound up coughing and hacking so much that he'd had tears in his eyes, mouth open and trying desperately to pull in air without any success. He'd almost damn near passed out.  
  
Dean had pulled out his Big Brother Card and hadn't been refused this time. The inhaler (because that was where they'd been, medical emergency wise) had been set up in record time, and when the first pump hadn't done shit, they'd done another.  
  
Which is where they're at now, with Dean anxiously watching Sam and hating what he's about to do, but the damn kid's running a fever and the cough is weak and tinny and now, now Sam's heart is going over 160 beats per minute, and has been since he took the second hit from the inhaler. Dean knows: he's got his fingers over the kid's pulse, which is going fast but steady. He sort of hates that that's the best they're going to get right now.  
  
Sam's hunched over the chair with his hand at his heart, trying to stay calm, and fuck, Dean's words aren't going to help that. But Sam's two seconds away from a possible heart attack and he's not breathing and they're done. Dean's done. He can't handle this on his own.  
  
“Sammy,” Dean starts, as gentle as he can, and Sam's eyes lift to look at him. Two seconds later his kid brother's eyes widen and he starts shaking his head and his pulse gets even faster. Great. “We have to,” Dean says.  
  
“M'fine,” Sam wheezes, then clutches at his chest. “D-Dean-”  
  
“Fine went out the window about a week ago,” and fuck the witch bitch to Hell and back for apparently deciding Sam made a great target for crossbow practice. “We need the hospital, Sam. We needed it, like, three days ago.”  
  
Sam opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out because he's too busy coughing. The loud coughs give way to the smaller, weaker ones, and in no time flat he's clutching at his throat and shuddering and gasping for air. His wet, red eyes meet Dean's, and Dean's already got Sam up and pressed against his side.  
  
“ER in less than ten minutes, okay? Just hang on to me, fuck, I've got you.”  
  
Sam doesn't argue, because he can't. Dean tries to tell himself that Sam _would_ argue with him, if he had the air, wouldn't taciturnly agree with Dean because he's that sick.  
  
He keeps the lie running through his head while he blows through two red lights and hopes that the difference of taking Sam to the ER three days ago and taking Sam now isn't going to wind up putting them into the negatives, and leave Dean without his kid brother.  
  
  
  
_The wonder drug wore off fast. In fact, it wore off just a little after Sam saw his brother, and god, Dean. Dean on life support and barely hanging on and just...Dean. His invincible big brother. Not invincible now.  
  
“Sir? Your father's just down this hall.”  
  
Dad. Dad was awake, at least. No word on whether Dean would wake up. Or live.  
  
The headache was getting worse, and Sam shoved the palms of his hands into his eyes to try and stem the pain. His hand ached from the IV, a slow sting that wouldn't go away. It should've gone away, the headache should've stayed gone for much longer than it had. Surely whatever they'd given him hadn't run out that fast?  
  
“Sir?”  
  
Something hit him hard from the side, and instinct made him shove something flat and unforgiving away, hands coming up immediately in a fight stance, except his legs weren't cooperating, and the hallway was tilting to the side. The pressure from his side was gone at least, but there was something cold against his cheek, and everything was spinning, everything was hurting, and Sam had to get up. He had to find Dad, had to help Dean. Dean had to make it.  
  
He had to. Sam didn't know what he'd do if Dean didn't make it.  
  
“Sir!”  
  
He blinked and realized he was on the floor. The cool tile against the side of his face was numbing it, but the headache persevered and the cold was only making the nausea return with a vengeance. Legs and feet were rushing towards him and he shut his eyes, waiting for impact as they undoubtedly ran into him.  
  
Hands reached him instead, pulling him up too fast, way too fast for his stomach, and Sam swallowed back bile. Too many hands, too many voices telling him he'd hit the wall somehow and he'd be fine, they just had to get him off the floor, and Sam risked opening his eyes.  
  
All around him were nurses and doctors, their voices a cacophony that made his head throb. His vision literally pulsed with each throb, and Sam tried to push them off. He didn't need the help, Dean did, and his hand was burning now, something was wrong, it was all wrong.  
  
“Sir, can you answer me?”  
  
He really hated that “sir”. “M'hand,” he mumbled, looking down at it. It looked red and angry, felt hot and wrong, and when someone touched it he about hurled. Oh god it hurt, stop touching it, please...  
  
“We have to fix it, Sammy.”  
  
Sam swiveled at the voice, at the name, and found himself staring into earnest yellow eyes. “We'll fix it,” the demon said, the young nurse he was wearing probably screaming inside even while a hand reached for him.  
  
Sam fell onto the floor and threw up. The cold tile, the smell of sickness and too clean hospital, and the demon's eyes were the last thing he remembered for awhile._  
  
  
  
The kid's way too silent in the car all the way to the hospital. He's measuring his breaths and Dean hates it, hates the way Sam's gotten pretty good at it over the past couple of weeks. Words flash through his head, words like lung damage, fluid build up, bronchitis, pneumonia, and each one turns his stomach. This simple little cold isn't simple or little anymore, and the idea of Sam being that sick makes Dean feel like he should turn in his Big Brother Card right then and there, because obviously he screwed it up somewhere.  
  
Finally they pull up to the ER, the drive still too long despite leaving cars screeching and honking behind them, and Dean races around to the passenger side. “Easy, easy, I got you,” he says, debating on whether to get someone with a wheelchair to come back out to get Sam, to get a whole team with a gurney.  
  
Sam's already standing though, hand seemingly attached to his chest, and heads for the ER doors. His other hand clutches at Dean's sleeve, though, and Dean leaves the car running and alone to get Sam inside. He tells the woman that Sam isn't breathing, that he keeps coughing until he's sick, and the woman says it won't be long, and would Sam please take a seat and fill out Some Paperwork. Of course.  
  
Except when Dean turns back to Sam, Sam's standing in the middle of the room looking down the corridor towards the multitude of ER rooms, standing and looking so lost and like he's gazing into the mouth of Hell itself. It takes three calls of his name to catch his attention, and Sam quickly finds a seat that doesn't face the hallway and promptly buries his head in his arms. It's not going to help his breathing at all, and he starts coughing almost at once.  
  
Dean throws the Some Paperwork onto the seat next to Sam and races out to park the car. As much as he didn't care where she was at that point, it'd be easier to get Sam out of the hospital if she wasn't towed. Parking space found, Dean puts every muscle to work as he runs flat out back to the doors, because of course all the close spaces were either handicapped, reserved for expectant mothers, or taken. He gets back inside in record time, though, and thank fuck Sam hasn't moved and still appears to be coughing. That means alive, and Dean'll take it.  
  
When Dean takes a seat beside him and gently places a hand on Sam's shoulder, Sam flinches away, and Dean freezes, thinks for half a second it's him, and then Sam's eyes dart out from behind his arms and the kid's shoulders come down. “Sorry,” Sam croaks, and Dean feels like an ass for even thinking it, because who was the kid clinging to when they came in?  
  
“Who else did you think would sit beside your hacking self?” Dean asks, because it's easier than saying, _It's okay_ when it very obviously isn't. “I'm immune at this point, completely invincible to whatever you've got.” And whatever Sammy's got has thus far been immune and invincible to Dean's treatments at the motel, which pisses him off to no end.  
  
Sam looks at him funny for a minute before mumbling, “Stay that way,” and goes back to keeping his head in his hands.  
  
Dean looks for the Some Paperwork and finds only four pages to fill out. Of course, all the print is small enough that a mouse would need a fucking microscope to read it, and the pen attached to the clipboard is about dead. Dean glances back at Sam and blinks a little, the run having made him a little dizzy and the world a little shaky. The kid's still alive, so Dean turns back to the paperwork, then realizes his vision isn't shaking at all, which means-  
  
Aw, hell, Sammy.  
  
He sets the damn papers aside and slides in his seat (why are they always so damn big for one person, but never big enough for two?) next to Sam, who is indeed trembling minutely. “You want a blanket?” Dean asks.  
  
Sam gives a larger shudder at that and shakes his head. “Just tell me when it's my turn,” he whispers, his voice hoarse and wrecked. He coughs again, takes a quick breath through his nose, then turns green. That one, Dean understands. The clean, supposedly fresh scent of the hospital always turns his stomach, too. It never means anything good.  
  
And Dean hates this, hates that Sam's here, hates that he's got Some Paperwork standing between him and getting the kid seen, knows it's going to be ages before he can take the kid home, and god, what if this isn't something he can just spring Sam for? What if Sam has to stay-  
  
“One thing at a time,” Dean murmurs to himself. For now, he needs to find a working pen and get Sam to maybe calm down a little. His kid brother's wound up enough to make any coughing or breathing hurt, period.  
  
Dean rises and heads for the desk again.  
  
  
  
_“Sir? Did you want a blanket?”  
  
Sam sat and shivered and didn't say anything. He was back in a bed – some other bed, not the one he'd woken up in – and the needle had been back in his hand again. Except this time, it wasn't the wonder drug coursing through his system. It looked like plain old saline, which meant no drugs, and he could do with some drugs. He felt cold and his head was pounding hard enough that he thought it would crack open, and his stomach weakly rebelled at the thought of all that blood. There'd been so much blood at the scene of the crash, on Dean, on Dad...  
  
Dad. He'd been going to see his Dad. “M'dad,” he murmured.  
  
The nurse was fussing with some heavy blanket and not listening. “My dad,” he enunciated, louder this time.  
  
The nurse finally finished putting the blanket on and frowned at him. “Is your dad coming to visit? Is he on the visitor's list?” she asked.  
  
No, not on the visitor's list, his dad wouldn't visit him, Sam was going to see him. “No, he's in...” and the room number was gone, up in smoke. Someone could've pointed a gun at him and Sam wouldn't have been able to remember. Tears sprang to his eyes and he shook his head. “He's here,” Sam told her, and the taste of stale sickness in his mouth only made him want to be ill again. “Please, I-I need to see him-”  
  
“You had an adverse reaction to the pain medication,” the nurse said, no longer interested in what he had to say. “We're trying to see if we can flush it out. Do you remember what happened before you passed out?”  
  
Dean. He remembered Dean. The wall against his side, the tile against his cheek, yellow eyes staring at him, trying to take him. “Be sick,” he mumbled, swallowing hard.  
  
The nurse looked sympathetic. “I'll talk to the doctor, see if you can have some anti-nausea medication,” she said and promptly walked out. In the hallway, Sam could hear people walking by, talking amongst themselves. Doctors being paged through the loud speaker, noise everywhere. It was going straight through Sam's head, as were the lights up above him and the sunlight pouring in brightly through the curtains.  
  
He had to get out of the room. He couldn't sit there for a moment longer, because the damn nurse obviously knew nothing about his dad, about Dean, and the longer Sam sat there, the longer things were going to go wrong without his knowing it. He just had to get up. Easy. Really.  
  
He sat up and immediately continued going forward, bending him in half, forehead almost to his knees. His stomach tried to rebel and Sam gagged once before it settled, still tight and clenched like it wanted to empty itself. Sam was pretty certain there wasn't anything left to bring up. The blanket was scratchy but warm on his chilled frame, the only thing good about the room so far. He felt dizzy, his limbs weak and not responding the way they should. Whatever that drug had been, it hadn't been wonderful. Sam couldn't remember feeling sicker in his entire life.  
  
Dean. He had to get to Dean. Dean who'd looked at him from the back of the car, Dean who'd depended on him to do the right thing and Sam had, he really had, up until he'd let the possessed driver hit them. T-Bone, the Winchester steak was overcooked and done, and oh god, he couldn't think about food now, his stomach couldn't take it. It clenched up in a warning sign, then let go slightly. The thought of all that blood at the scene was enough to make him have to shut his eyes, his headache pulsing behind his left eye.  
  
But it was hard not to think about it, because it was his fault. All of it. And it killed him to think of his brother in that bed because of him. The demon coming after Sam, the car Sam had been driving, and Dean was paying the price.  
  
He had to get up and out of the uncomfortable bed. He had to leave the warm blanket behind and go find Dean, find Dad.  
  
He pushed himself up and set his feet on the floor, the cold floor that he could feel through his socks. His boots were off in the corner, and putting them on was a stretch. He managed it, somehow, leaning against the wall that smelled like too much cleaner. The entire hospital smelled like too much cleaner, and he'd always been able to tell when he was in a hospital or a doctor's office. The smell of that much clean always went straight up his nose and right to his gut. Or to his headache.  
  
God he was cold. But his hands felt too hot and it felt like his skin was too tight. Somewhere, somehow, he knew that meant something, but he couldn't remember what now.  
  
Dad. Dad would know. He just had to find Dad.  
  
The hallway was long and full of people, full of doors. People kept pushing against him, nearly sending him to the floor. His body shook and the lights were too bright and everything was wrong. He wanted to leave. Oh god he wanted to run out of there into the sunshine and grass and warm air and anywhere that wasn't the sterilized environment filled with blood and pain and death. He shook harder, his head throbbing incessantly and his brain nearly having enough. His vision was narrowing down, and it felt like one of his eyes didn't work. It was like the nightmares he was running from something and he couldn't see well, his eyes falling shut and he couldn't get them to open. Except now, now it was real: the pain was shutting his vision down and his stomach wouldn't settle and he was so alone, so cold and hot and in pain and alone because he'd probably killed the only family he had left.  
  
He forced himself up against a wall and followed it down the hallway. He'd find his dad. Then everything would be okay._


	2. Chapter 2

It's the longest hour of Dean's life, and that's saying something. He's had a ton of long hours. Waiting on a hunt, waiting to see if his little brother would live after a bad hunt, getting the pyre ready for his dad. Lots of long hours.  
  
This one, though. This one goes down as the worst.  
  
He'd finished Some Paperwork and turned it back in, after finding a pen that worked. By the time he was done Sam's nose was almost to his knees and his hands were wrapped around the back of his head, face firmly buried in his arms. He kept coughing and clutching at his chest, his hand permanently affixed to the area above his heart.  
  
The doors would open at some point, a nurse calling out for someone to come back, and the noise from behind the doors would get louder. Sam would flinch and bury himself impossibly further and just fuck that shit, okay? Some random building isn't going to take his kid down. Dean might not be able to do anything against the damn infection spreading through his brother's chest, but he can do something about the hospital. Or at least try.  
  
He pulls himself up with his gaze on one of the longer seats, the ones meant to hold multiple people, the one a young couple has just vacated. It's even further away from the doors, which makes it perfect. “Sammy,” Dean calls softly, this time making sure Sam's heard him before touching him. “Up and at 'em, kiddo. We're making a quick move.”  
  
The slight movement of Sam's uncurling results in a coughing fest that leaves him gasping for air and looking greener around the gills than before. Dean catches his wrist and tries not to cringe at the speeding pulse. If someone doesn't come out soon...  
  
“Whe....” Sam tries, only to cough some more. Dean takes the chance to pull Sam to his feet, only to wind up with an armful of six four not so little-little brother. Dean wraps his arms as tightly as he dares around his kid and steers them towards the vacated bench.  
  
“Better digs. We're moving up in the world: we get the sofa now.” He sits them both down and now he can actually have Sam curl up next to him without those damn armrests between them. This works.  
  
Except Sam's got other plans and keeps sliding down until his head's resting against Dean's shoulder, feet up and off the floor. It's a tight fit with Sam's Multiple Limbs Of Huge Proportions, but Dean's dealt with them before, and most things bow to their mighty size, though the couch looks like it might have something to say about them. Sam's feet wind up shoved against the armrest of the sofa, and the kid's neck has to be at an awkward angle, and that's why Dean moves him again, okay? Plus, now he'll have access to his pulse point better.  
  
But truth is, the kid's gone past worrying him to a half second from panic with this coughing and racing pulse and fever, so if Dean winds up moving Sam's head from against his shoulder to Dean's lap, it's his prerogative, fuck you very much. Laying down probably isn't very good for his breathing but Sam actually _relaxes_ a little, minute shaking easing to a slight tremor, and Dean lets himself shut his eyes for half a second.  
  
“Sam Harrison?”  
  
Well, so much for that.  
  
The nurse is looking around, eyes not looking very interested, and Dean sighs but raises his hand. The one that's not resting on Sam's shoulder, that is, and damn if the kid hasn't tensed right back up again. God _dammit_.  
  
The nurse wanders over and says in a very firm manner, “It's going to be a little bit longer, on account of the car accident we had earlier,” and no, no no _no_ , you couldn't have said anything else except car accident? and there goes Sam coughing, back to tiny breaths that leave Dean's lungs aching in sympathy.  
  
At least that registers the nurse's attention. She bends down with her stethoscope and tries to gently pry Sam's hand from his chest. Sam reluctantly lets her, and as soon as the stethoscope hits Sam's chest, it's game over. Her eyes widen before she looks up at Dean, Sam seemingly forgotten. “How long has his heart rate been like this?”  
  
“Since we got him in here,” Dean snaps, because fuck, his brother's sick and getting more freaked out by the minute, and her worry, as sincere as it might be now, isn't helping anything. It's just making Sam more tense and making his coughing that much worse.  
  
The nurse either doesn't hear his sharp tone or chooses to ignore it, instead heading for the doors with a lot more pep in her step. Shit. “S'bad,” Sam whispers, voice shredded.  
  
“Not that bad,” Dean lies. “Just rest up a bit. You're fine, I promise, okay? I got you. I'm right here.”  
  
And it shouldn't matter so much but apparently it does. Sam goes nearly boneless on him, just a random shiver and raspy breath here and there, and the trust that Dean doesn't deserve for letting this go on longer than it has makes his eyes burn. God, his kid brother, his little brother who's not so little anymore but always his little brother with his big eyes and fingers wrapped around Dean's jeans like he'll never let go.  
  
Dean keeps his one hand on Sam's shoulder and uses his free hand to run fingers through Sam's hair, brushing against the heat coming from his kid's forehead. It'll be a whirlwind in a little bit. But not now. Just not right now, please.  
  
  
  
 _Everything went to hell so fast, Sam couldn't believe it.  
  
Dad got mad, and when was that new? Never mind that one of his sons was lying a few rooms over, barely alive. Never mind that his other son was in front of him, barely standing. Sam felt worse than before, shivering in earnest, the light keeping him from seeing anything, and his head, oh god his head. Then he'd had to go and see Bobby about the Impala and Dad's list and Bobby had wondered why the hell he wasn't in a bed of his own at the hospital. Sam couldn't. Even with the sunlight shining straight through his head and not warming him at all and the world getting dizzy and god, his head, his head, his HEAD, he'd been out of the hospital for a little bit. Everything had been okay.  
  
So of course the first thing he'd done upon going back into the hospital had been to throw up, this time in a bathroom stall at least. Then he was off to Dad with the things from the list, off to see Dean and talk to Dean through the Ouija board and god he'd missed his brother, and then the reaper and then Dean waking up and everything had been okay for all of thirty seconds. For all of thirty seconds, even with his stomach clenching, even with his vision still gray at the edges, his head out of sync with his body and his arm still burning from the drugs and the saline, everything had been okay. He'd gone off to get coffee with weak legs and a hopeful heart.  
  
And then he'd seen his dad on the floor. Not breathing.  
  
A time was permanently etched into his brain, the room was closing in and Dean, god Dean, the look on his face and the sheet being pulled over Dad's face and Dad  
  
Dean falling against the wall, staring at nothing,  
  
Dad  
  
Sam's stomach refusing to stop clenching, nothing coming out,  
  
Gruff voice firm voice soft voice  
  
Nurses pushing them out of the room, ignoring Sam when his legs finally gave,  
  
Hard eyes angry eyes smiling eyes  
  
Dean getting him to a chair, Dean's face white as a sheet,  
  
Sheet over his head, Dad Dad Dad  
  
Daddy  
  
The throbbing in Sam's head took over, and he mercifully let himself fall into the black._  
  
  
  
There's still no room in the back of the ER apparently, no room at the inn for the Winchesters, but the nurse does come out with an IV bag to give to Sam. Sam _lurches_ back and away from the needle, and Sam's many things, but he's not afraid of needles. Dean stitched him up two weeks ago back in some random motel, ten stitches total, and the kid didn't even blink.  
  
Dean knows why Sam hates hospitals, has nightmares about them, or at least, he thought he did. Now, he's not so sure.  
  
Between the nurse's patient insistence and Dean's coaxing, they finally get Sam to agree to the IV. “It's just some saline,” the nurse tells Sam, and Sam cringes but lets her do it. She offers Sam a pillow, a blanket, all of which Sam refuses, instead staying curled up on Dean's lap like Dean's all he's got left in the world. The truth of the statement makes Dean choke on his next breath and has to swallow it back fast. Sam's all Dean's got left. Dean's all his little brother has left. There's friends, there's Bobby, there's the car and their dad's journal. But all they've truly got left is each other.  
  
A man in scrubs comes out from the ER, and the sound of someone's loud, panicked voice from ER beyond makes Sam shudder. Dean tightens his hand on his shoulder and makes sure not to move his legs to keep Sam steady.  
  
“You're Sam Harrison?”  
  
Dean glances up and blinks at the man in scrubs who suddenly appears before them. The man smiles and bends down in front of Sam. “I'm Mark, one of the assistants here in the ER. We're gonna see if we can get a doctor out here for you in a jiffy, how's that?”  
  
“Anything a doctor can do about his heart rate?” Dean asks, forcing Mark's too cheerful smile up to Dean's face. Mark frowns, so Dean elaborates, pretty damn graciously on his part if he does say so himself. “The one that's been over 160 for, oh, a few hours now?”  
  
Mark quickly takes Sam's hand – the one with the IV in it, of course, making Sam take in a trembling breath and Dean take in a sharp warning one – and frowns at the pulse. “Let's see if we can't get that to slow down a little,” he says. “How exactly did this happen?”  
  
Dean, as calmly as he can, explains about the inhaler, why they needed it, and oh yeah, the cough that won't end, which Sam chooses that moment to exhibit. Mark's frown keeps dropping as Dean finishes. “With his cough, I don't want to go with oral drugs, which I'll verify with one of the doctors. Let me get him a cough suppressant and something for the heart rate, see if we can't reverse the effects of the inhaler.”  
  
“N'drugs,” Sam manages to get out between coughs. “Don't...don't want...”  
  
Mark's not even listening to Sam, and just keeps going. “Is he running a fever at all? It looks like he is. I'd like to get chest x-rays too, see how bad the infection is. Let me get another IV bag with a good cocktail, and we'll be set.” He turns to walk away and Sam lets out a soft whimper of frustration and fear, and that's _it_.  
  
“You were going to check his chart first, right?” Dean calls, making Mark stop.  
  
“Sorry?”  
  
“Y'know, his chart. The thing I spent a god-awful hour filling out to make sure his allergies get taken care of, or was that just something fun to do? Because I'd much prefer word searches and coloring books, not random forms,” Dean says casually, but his gaze is hard as he glares at Mark. “And last I looked, I wasn't the patient, Sam was. Sam wants to know if there's any way to do this without drugs.”  
  
Mark's lips pinch together in a very unflattering way. “I'm very sorry, _sir_ , but drugs are sort of necessary at this point. You'll be speaking with a doctor shortly,” and storms off behind the ER doors.  
  
Dean glares at the doors, trying to send his gaze all the way through until they hit Mark in the back of his goddamn prissy head, because who the hell does he think he is, playing with his kid's life like that? “Fuck you too,” Dean mutters under his breath.  
  
“I hate 'sir',” Sam whispers, before letting out another cough. It's weaker and softer, nothing good.  
  
Dean carefully turns Sam until his head's a little more upright on Dean's lap. “Yeah, I do too,” Dean says with a sigh. “Nothing good comes out of it. Just people that think they know best.”  
  
“Got it a lot when...y'know,” Sam finishes miserably and when Dean looks down, Sam's staring at his hand with the IV. “Hate it,” he murmurs. “Burned like you wouldn't believe.”  
  
Past tense, not present. Still not anything Dean wants to hear. Especially since he's apparently missing more than the general story than what the nurses at the hospital told him after...after Dad. One minute, they were calling the time of death, and the next, Sam was hitting the ground, out cold and looking like shit. Apparently had been that way for awhile. He'd been told the gist of it while they'd wheeled Sam down to another room.  
  
He realizes now he's missing the little pieces, the things that matter the most to Sam and thus matter even more to Dean. Unfortunately, asking Sam now would border on cruel.  
  
Another man, this one with a white coat over his scrubs, comes straight towards them, no looking around the waiting room required, apparently. Dean takes a deep breath and prepares to argue.  
  
“Mr. Harrison? I'm Doctor Clemstat. If you'll come with me, we have a room for you in the back.”  
  
That sort of takes the sails out of his argument, and all his energy is spent bringing Sam to his feet and half supporting, half carrying his kid into the hallway of the ER. It's louder inside, with nurses talking and the doctor ahead of them animatedly discussing what they're going to put Sam on, and Sam's taking smaller and fewer steps until they finally stop all together and Sam puts his feet in the Not Going Any Further position, the one he learned when he was five and figured out he couldn't go to school with Dean, and he wasn't having any of that. If Dean pulls really hard at Sam, Sam'll probably move, but he takes one look at the kid's white face, his stricken gaze, and decides talking might do better than walking at this point. “Sam. Sam. Sammy. Hey, look at me, kiddo. Sammy.”  
  
Sam turns his head a little towards Dean, but his eyes are darting everywhere in the hallway. Dean'll take it for what it is. “Hey, we're gonna get something for the cough, all right? And your heart because dude, you can only be a mighty Superman with a pulse faster than the speed of light for so long, okay?” He has no idea if any of this is registering with Sam at all, if the kid can even hear him, but it's worth a shot. Sam's always been worth the extra mile.  
  
Sam doesn't say anything, but after a long moment he nods, a short sort of jerky nod, and takes a step forward, and Dean couldn't honestly be more proud of his kid if he tried. Just...god, his Sammy.  
  
They make it to the room and get Sam seated on the bed, where Sam sits on the edge and makes no move to lay down. “Let's get you down to give your heart some reprieve, how's that sound?” Dr. Clemstat says, already going to help pull Sam's legs up.  
  
It goes downhill from there. Sam struggles to help and hinder both at once, and it takes both Dean and the doctor to get Sam up on the bed. Sam's breathing hard and coughing until his lips turn blue and there's no sound coming out of his mouth at all. The oxygen mask goes on, nurses come in fast with some drug that they pump into the IV before Dean can even say anything. Sam's eyes go wide and watery, his hand with the IV shaking helplessly as if to dislodge it, and Dean hates himself more than words can describe.  
  
“It's just a small sedation to calm him down,” the doctor says somewhere off in the distance, or so it sounds. Dean's got no senses for anyone except Sam. Sam's eyes are falling shut despite his fighting, and he won't look away from Dean.  
  
Dean swallows and takes Sam's flailing hand in his. “Right here,” he says softly. “I'm right here, Sammy. Not going anywhere.”  
  
Sam's eyes slowly shut and stay shut, his hand going limp in Dean's. The oxygen mask keeps fogging with his weak breaths, and doctors and nurses are still working around him. If they've asked him to leave, Dean hasn't heard it. Not that he'd listen anyway. He's got more important things to do, like hold Sam's hand and brush the hair from his brother's face.  
  
And sit and wonder about the last time they were in the hospital, because Sam's fear is way too great for him to ignore.  
  
  
  
 _When Sam came to again, he was in yet another hospital bed. Different room, same lights, same smell. It made him want to hurl all over again, though the taste in his mouth told him he'd already done that at some point recently. His head ached, like someone had punched his brain and left bruises, but the sharp pain had faded some. The agony that had been behind his left eye was lingering in the background, just taunting him with the ability to come out and play. He felt like he'd been in a car wreck, he thought ironically. For the first time since they'd crashed, his pain matched the event. His dad usually said that he felt like roadkill after a hunt that went-  
  
Dad. Used to say.  
  
Sam slowly turned his gaze to his side, where Dean was sitting. Cuts and a few bruises danced across his brother's face, reminders of the accident that had almost taken his life but somehow, somehow, hadn't. Dean had been allowed to live, and Dad...  
  
Dean tiredly lifted his head and blinked when he saw Sam staring back at him. “Got your bell rung pretty hard, apparently,” Dean said quietly. “Worst concussion the doctor's seen in years. Cracked your skull. Your left eye's gonna be a little messed up for awhile, but you should...should be okay,” he said, choking on a breath before coughing and continuing again. “Bad reaction to the pain meds they gave you. Said you were pretty sick, have been since you first woke up.”  
  
“Dean,” Sam said softly, but Dean shook his head.  
  
“I'm fine, Sam.”  
  
Fine wasn't a word he'd use to describe either of them. Tears gathered in his eyes, but Dean didn't need them right then, and Sam couldn't afford them. Not when they made his eye twinge with pain and his head start throbbing again. “When can we leave?” he whispered.  
  
“As soon as you woke up,” Dean said, and Sam realized his brother was in the same bloody clothes he'd worn at the cabin. There was blood staining the front of his shirt, a rip in the arm from the car wreck, dirt matted here and there. He looked like...like a man who'd survived a car crash and a demon attack.  
  
Dad's clothes had been perfectly clean, and Sam felt like throwing up again.  
  
Concerning his own clothes, Sam realized with gratitude that they were on, with only his boots missing again. “Are you okay to go?” Dean asked, his voice distant, like he was barely hanging on.  
  
“More than,” Sam said emphatically, pushing himself to sitting. His head immediately burst into pain, stars crossed his vision, and his stomach clenched again, but he was through. His hand ached when he brought it down on the bed to steady himself, and Dean leaned forward, eyes widening as if to catch him. “I'm fine, Dean,” Sam said, aiming for the same firm tone Dean had used just a few moments before. There was nothing that was keeping Sam in the hospital where he'd suffered pain and nearly lost his brother and...  
  
God, Dad...  
  
He nearly pushed himself to his feet when Dean stopped him. “You need your boots,” was all he said, but he knelt and put Sam's boots on, like Dad used to when he was little. Sam bit his lip to keep the tears from falling, the memory sharp and straight through his heart. His dad was gone. His dad was gone, and there was nothing that was going to fix that.  
  
Dean. Dean was here. He had Dean, hadn't lost him too, and Sam couldn't help but reach out and grab hold of Dean's shoulder if just to see that it moved, that he was alive, and Sam wasn't alone anymore. Dean inhaled sharply and glanced up, and there was a maelstrom of pain in his eyes that he was trying so hard to shove down.  
  
Sam didn't care, so long as they left the smell of cleaner and the cold air behind. “Can we go?” he pleaded, his eyes burning. Oh god, he wanted to leave and never ever come back. Even though his stomach was sore and tight and his skin felt too hot and tight (fever, that's what it was, Dad had never told him after all) and his head just throbbed.  
  
Dean cracked a little, worry and grief spilling out onto his face. “Sammy-”  
  
“Sir? We have your paperwork,” a nurse said, sticking her head into the room. “We just need you to sign if you can.”  
  
Sam could sign. He pushed himself off the bed and strode as best he could towards the door. His legs felt a little shaky but he gripped the pen in his tender hand and signed. It wasn't even his name, and he didn't care: he wanted to leave. He wanted to leave the place and never ever come back.  
  
The nurse went away with the paperwork and Dean came up behind him, a hovering presence that made everything okay. Just a little okay for a bit. “C'mon,” was all he said, as if he hadn't been worried and concerned a few moments before. But his hand was on Sam's back, his shoulder up against Sam's to keep him steady, and Sam focused on that all the way out of the hospital.  
  
The pain only got worse out in the sunshine, where Bobby was apparently waiting at the curb. Sam took his first breath of free air and thought of his dad back behind him, never breathing again.  
  
He held his head in his hands the entire way to Bobby's and pretended it was because of the physical pain._  
  
  
  
Turns out, the nurses did ask Dean to leave, but it didn't go past that, because apparently it's obvious that Dean's not leaving. Especially when Dean sits himself on the edge of the plastic seat and wraps his arms around Sam and Sam's shoulders, fingers on Sam's pulse point and in his hair. Dr. Clom-whatever said they were aiming for a pulse rate in the mid 50's. “He should be resting at about 55 with his lungs the way they are,” he said. “We'll get it down.”  
  
Sam's pulse is coming down, slowly but surely; Dean's been listening to the sounds of the heart monitor for awhile that they hooked up after they took Sam's shirts and jacket off. He's in a gown now. They took the belt off, but allowed him to keep his jeans and his socks. His boots are in the corner with his clothes, just like they were last time.  
  
Last time. It always comes back to last time.  
  
“D'n?”  
  
Dean's eyes jerk up to where Sam's blearily blinking. “Hey kiddo,” he says gently. “How's life?”  
  
Sam slowly glances around the room, eyes still half-lidded and not tracking right. “Fuzzy,” is all he manages, the word slurred. Still drugged to the gills, then. He lets his head fall towards Dean and focuses on Dean briefly. “We go now?” he asks, and Dean's heart breaks.  
  
“Not yet,” Dean says regretfully. Sam's trying to fidget now, but the drugs aren't letting him move much, and it's not going to take long for that to make the kid panic. Already his heart rate's kicked up a notch, and they've had him rocking around the 70-75 range. It's not great but it's better, and he'd even dipped down to a resting rate of 66 before he woke up.  
  
“Hey,” Dean says. He curls his arms up, forcing Sam to turn towards Dean. The nasal cannula comes with him easily, thank god, because the last thing Dean needs is for the nurse to come in and holler at him. Not that Dean wouldn't holler back, but he doesn't need Sam upset. The whole point is to keep Sam not upset, so he brings Sam towards him, cradling his kid in his arms while he drags the chair with him with his foot until he's right up against Sam's bed. He leans forward until his forehead's up against Sam's, a light pressure that forces Sam to focus on him. “Sammy. Hey, Sammy.”  
  
Sam blinks at him, still obviously not with it but listening all the same. The beeping of the monitor starts to drop off again, no longer as fast. Dean lets himself smile for the first time in what seems like weeks and really means it. “Hey,” he says warmly. “I'm right here. We're gonna get you out of here in no time, all right?”  
  
“Hand,” Sam murmurs, barely lifting the hand with the IV in it. “Burned.”  
  
“Does it now?”  
  
Sam frowns a little, like Dean's speaking in Swahili, but then just closes his eyes and lets his hand drop. Dean's going to assume the answer's no. “Hurts,” Sam mumbles. “But n'like it did.” He coughs twice and takes a sharp inhale, like he's got to take in as much oxygen as he can, but then he doesn't cough anymore and Dean takes his own breath.  
  
“Not like it did?” Dean asks. “In the waiting room?”  
  
Sam shakes his head, his skin rubbing against Dean's. “Before,” he whispers with a sigh. “Dad.”  
  
The other hospital. Dean swallows. “Did it hurt worse?” he asks, his voice still so low. Sam's right in front of him, literally, curled in his arms. Their own little world, just SamnDean and no one else allowed in. Sam's breathing in raspy breaths, though the color's returned to his face, thanks to the oxygen. He's got his kid drugged on god knows what, but he hasn't had an adverse reaction to it, and Sam's heart rate continues to drop.   
  
Sam opens his eyes barely, but there's a stronger recognition in them now. “Head. Light, s'bright, and m'eyes...” He frowns a little. “Sick,” he mumbles. “Everythin' was wrong.”  
  
There's a world of remembered pain there that Dean'll demand to hear when the kid's not barely hanging onto consciousness. He'll pack his brother into bed and feed him soup and make him watch cartoons and pull the pain out, one word at a time if he needs to. Give him hot cocoa and Lucky Charms and everything Sam could want.  
  
For now, he'll settle with keeping Sam close. “Tell me what to do,” he says anyway, unable to help himself. “Tell me what you want, Sammy.”  
  
Sam lets his eyes close all the way and slides in even closer to Dean. “Stay,” he murmurs. “Don't wanna be alone again. Jus'...jus' need you.”  
  
The air gets a little harder to breathe and it burns in his eyes, that's the only reason Dean's eyes water. It has nothing to do with the fact that his little brother just issued him a platinum Big Brother Card that he doesn't deserve and told him he could keep it if he just sits where he is and does nothing except _be there_ , and Dean's mind flashes him to the hospital with Dad and Sam passing out and that had only been after Dean had woken up, and Sam had done it all alone. Suffered alone, had no one there to hold his hand or wrap him up while he was in pain. Just nurses who'd probably done their best but hadn't known Sam, hadn't needed to know Sam to treat him.  
  
Sam apparently decides Dean's not bleeding from the heart enough, because he takes his free hand and wraps two fingers around Dean's sleeve and god, _this kid_ , his kid, his little brother, and Dean's never leaving his side, not ever.  
  
“Right here,” Dean chokes out. “Nowhere else.” He places a kiss on his brother's forehead, closing his own eyes for a long moment.  
  
When he opens them, the heart monitor on the other side of the bed reads 55, and Dean closes his eyes again when they start to sting. In his arms, Sam sleeps on, oxygen going full blast and letting them both breathe.  
  
END


End file.
